


The Shortest Distance

by Cathryn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Multi, Soulmates, Threesome, but i'm terrible at writing porn so i know i've spared you an awful fate, i'd be sorry, no porn here, with all the dubious consent that a soulmate verse implies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cathryn/pseuds/Cathryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=77847685#t77847685">prompt</a> at sherlockbbc_fic:</p><p>  <i>Set in a world where people can identify their soulmate through touch:</i></p><p>  <i>John and Sherlock figure out fairly quickly that they're meant to be together. It takes a while to settle into each other's lives, but they work. And it's good, better than either of them ever dreamed.</i></p><p>  <i>But then John grabs hold of Moriarty at the pool, and...</i></p><p>  <i>Well.</i></p><p>  <i>Things just got a bit more complicated.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. main story (incomplete and staying that way)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is ABANDONED. Anyone who wants to play in this verse is welcome to, but I am no longer part of _Sherlock_ fandom and won't be returning. I'm only posting for completion and on the off chance that anyone might care about officially revealing who wrote this.
> 
> Also, credit where it's due: the phrase "soulmate principle" is not mine. I borrowed it from LJ Smith's lovely (if unfinished) _Nightworld_ series, which, if you are into supernatural romance, you should read immediately if not sooner.
> 
> 10/7/16 - exactly two years after posting this fic, I'm still getting a steady stream of kudos. First, thanks so much! I put a lot of time and love into worldbuilding this one and I'm thrilled it's resonating with people. Second - where are you all coming from? Is there a link somewhere? I'd appreciate if someone could comment to let me know. Thanks, and please keep enjoying this story.
> 
> Also! I've been asked once or twice if it's okay to write fic in this verse, and the answer is yes! Please do! Just make it a "work inspired by" or otherwise let me know. It doesn't even have to be Sherlockfic, btw, if you want to borrow anything for any other fandom, go for it.

Muted connections happen sometimes. For every thousand bonds that spring vividly into being at the touch of a hand, there's one or two that begin life so tentatively the pair aren't even sure at first. Sometimes it can take hours, even days. It isn't until he watches Sherlock raise the pill to his lips that John is sure, absolutely sure, of them. He shoots without hesitation.

Sherlock, wrapped up in his disdain for the soulmate principle, takes a bit longer, but in the end, his resistance gives way.

It's good, what they build together after that. If John occasionally feels cheated of that flare of brilliance everyone grows up hearing about, or can't quite understand why bonded pairs so often insist the word "connection" is inadequate, he never says anything. A muted connection is still a connection, and being connected to Sherlock is worth far more than a single bright moment could ever be.

*

Their connection may be muted, but everyone still knows it's there. In retrospect, John thinks perhaps he should have taken that into consideration before he went out to visit Sarah.

*

"You can _talk_ , Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

Caught up in his own genius, Moriarty has stepped carelessly close, and now it's just a matter of choosing his moment. John tenses, waiting until Moriarty's head has turned toward the pool and put John completely out of his line of sight. Then he pounces, grabbing Moriarty to position him as a human shield.

"Sherlock, run!" he shouts. Or tries to, anyway, but the third syllable dies in his throat as a horrifyingly familiar sensation begins to assert itself. He's only felt it once before, when his hand touched Sherlock's as he passed over his phone that day in the lab. He's only _meant_ to ever feel it once, and he certainly shouldn't be feeling it here with his arm around this man. It's subtle, even more muted than it had been in those first moments with Sherlock. It would almost be easy to miss if he didn't already know what it was. John holds his breath, praying Moriarty will miss it, or brush it away as Sherlock had done.

But Moriarty goes still and silent against him; even if he didn't recognize the connection for what it is, he can't have missed the way Sherlock is looking at them now, fascinated with the faintest hint of bemused betrayal around the edges.

"Really?" Moriarty says.

"Apparently so," Sherlock answers, which is just as well because John can't even begin to find words.

". . . Is that it?" Moriarty asks. "That's a bit anticlimactic."

"Muted," Sherlock says. "Or . . ." The hint of betrayal is already gone, replaced entirely by the excitement he always finds in something new and different. He lowers his gun, studying them.

"But it's not possible," John says blankly. "We - Sherlock and I -"

"It's not probable," Moriarty corrects. All the gloating of a moment ago is gone from his voice; now he just sounds flat and sulky. "It does happen."

"Triad or split?" Sherlock asks Moriarty. Moriarty shakes his head once, minutely. John can just barely feel the gesture through the parka's padding.

(His grip on Moriarty has eased, his arm now in a loose loop around Moriarty's shoulders instead of being wrapped around his neck. John winces inwardly when he realizes this, but doesn't let go. Moriarty makes no effort to pull away.)

"Isn't that all a myth?" John asks. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Moriarty makes a scornful noise.

"Yes, Johnny, it's a myth. That's why it's happening right now. Does he ask questions like that all the time?"

"He's less difficult to tune out than most."

"Oh, good," John says, "this is going to be so much fun."

Moriarty turns his head a little, bringing his face into contact with John's. The intimate brush of skin on skin makes the connection solidify and pull tighter, snapping it into the same clear focus as the connection between John and Sherlock. _Oh_ , John thinks.

"You're the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself," Moriarty murmurs.

"John," Sherlock says. "Concentrate. You're the only one with two connections right now, it gives you access to data we don't have. Triad or split. Can you tell?"

"Triad." The answer comes out before he's even thought about it, but in the next second, everything falls into place. There's a blank gap, an almost tangible nothingness, between Sherlock and Moriarty where the last link of the connection should be. They can't feel it, not with their connections only binding them to John, but now he's noticed it he can't not feel it. "We've had it wrong from the start, Sherlock. We're not muted, we never were. We're -"

"Incomplete," Sherlock finishes for him. He moved closer as John spoke, peering intently at John, then Moriarty.

"Maybe there's not even any such thing as a muted connection," John says. "Maybe they're all just -"

Moriarty cuts him off with an exasperated sigh. "Oh, _enough already_ ," he says, and reaches up, wrapping his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck to drag him closer. The bond between the three of them blazes into life, burning the pale lines of its former self into such brilliance John nearly staggers under the shock. He feels Moriarty's body turn liquid against his

(his arm tightens again, protective this time, not letting Jim fall)

and hears their gasps along with his own. It's the moment John had accepted he would never have, only more, because two people alone couldn't bear the force of it. Would never survive it. It needs all three of them.

They need each other.

Sherlock's hand has somehow found his; he can feel the strength of Jim's grip on his arm through the sleeve of the parka; his own fingers are digging into Jim's shoulder. As the brilliance fades, leaving the newly wrought bond in its place, they're all still clutching hard enough to leave bruises.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it's Sherlock who speaks first.

"Well," he says, his gaze fixed on Jim's. "This would appear to be something of a game changer."

Sherlock's words remind John of a small yet crucial detail.

"I'm still wearing a bomb," he realizes.

"No," Jim says.

"What? No, I'm pretty sure -"

The look that appears on Jim's face is astonishingly like the look Sherlock gets whenever anyone asks a question he thinks is stupid (ie, any question).

"No," he says with exaggerated patience, breaking the stare with Sherlock to look at John instead, "you are not wearing a bomb. I was hardly going to risk killing Sherlock's soulmate this early in the game."

Sherlock immediately lets go of John's hand to tug the parka further open and run his fingers over the not-bomb.

"That's not even a good fake," he says.

"Yes, it is," Jim corrects him. "It only needed to fool you for a few minutes. It did its job."

"Great," John says. "Does that mean you won't have me shot if I take it off now?"

Jim leans his head back onto John's shoulder long enough to say, "I'll have you shot if you don't." He kisses John's jaw, flicking the tip of his tongue over the stubble just beginning to show itself at this late hour. No more than that, though, which is wise; the way John's breath shudders in his throat tells him if any of them does more than that right now, none of them will be able to stop. Then Jim uses the grip he still has on Sherlock's neck to leverage himself up and away from John.

John instantly feels bereft without contact from either of them. That's normal in the first hours of a new bond, but it had been another factor missing from what he and Sherlock had before; the strength of it takes him by surprise. He yanks off the stupid heavy gloves and throws them aside, anxious to be rid of the superfluous padding and back with Sherlock and Jim. They're only a couple feet away, but it feels like miles.

"I'm going to be furious about this later, you know," he says, to himself as much as to Jim. Once the bond has settled and they're all feeling more themselves. Then he'll be furious.

"Mmm," Jim says. The hand that had been clutching John's arm before is wrapped around Sherlock's hip now; Sherlock has one arm around Jim and the other loose at his side, waiting for John. "Are you going to punish me? I have a friend who might let us borrow her riding crop if we ask very nicely."

"I have a riding crop," Sherlock says.

"You use your riding crop on corpses," John points out, finally succeeding in dropping the parka and the fake bomb to the floor. God, that's better. Sherlock holds his free hand out to him, saying,

"Just the once."

"Once is all it takes." The sense of relief as he joins them again is immeasurable. Unmuffled by the gloves and parka, the physical contact - Sherlock's hand in his, the angles of Jim's lean body through the fabric of his suit - is even more satisfying. He can feel both of them relaxing as well.

"And that's worse than using someone else's?"

"Only you would have to ask that question." He's uttered that sentence before in conversation with Sherlock, more than once, but it comes out a bit differently to how it usually does, fond instead of exasperated. Sherlock, clearly deciding this means he's won, looks pleased. John can't help but smile.

Then he blinks as he feels something buzz against his hip. Something in Jim's pocket. Jim's mobile. The ringtone is muffled between their bodies, but not quite muffled enough.

"The Bee Gees?" John says, incredulous. Jim flashes him an annoyed look.

"I didn't pick it," he says, digging his hand between them to extract the mobile from his pocket. "I'll just be a minute. . . . Not now, dear, I'm busy."

He didn't even bother to step away from them before answering. With the mobile less than six inches from his head, John can hear the other end of the conversation quite clearly.

"I knew it," a woman's voice says, triumphant. "Triad or split?"

"Triad." Jim manages to sound insupportably smug and deeply put out all at once.

"Lucky boy. I won't keep you. Bring them with you Friday, if you can stand to drag yourselves out of bed by then. We'll have dinner."

The call ends. Jim tucks the mobile back in his pocket, then slides his fingers under the band of John's trousers.

"Speaking of bed," he says, "I keep a flat two blocks from here. Shall we?"

*

John is the first awake the next morning. His mind is clearer than it had been the night before; the initial urgency of a new bond has eased, and having got some real sleep doesn't hurt, either. He lingers in bed for a while, watching the other two sleep.

Sherlock is sleeping the way he always does when he finally lets himself crash after a case; after decades of sleep deprivation and general abuse, his body has learnt to take advantage, sinking into a sleep so deep John has to watch for a minute to be sure he's even breathing.

He's also taking up three-quarters of the bed, as usual. Jim, who was between them last John checked, has responded to Sherlock's incursion by sleeping on top of him instead. With someone else, that might be sweet. With Jim, it reads more like a response to an act of war - retaking his territory by claiming his opponent as his territory.

(They kept Jim between them all last night, an unspoken agreement, because it would be easier to slow him down with two of them if they had to, because he's what they didn't know what they were missing, because they could feel how incomplete they had been without him and they needed to make that disappear.)

Jim Moriarty. Jesus Christ, what are they meant to do with that? How is this even going to work in day-to-day life? _Evening, Jim, how was your day? Blow up any more innocent people?_

Sometimes - not often, but every now and then - the soulmates of truly bad people will turn on them. It requires tremendous reserves of strength and a deep belief in what's right, not to mention the ability to hold on to that in the face of social censure and the protective instincts inculcated by the bond. The only person John knows who's done it successfully is Martha Hudson.

He wishes right now he had half her steel, because he already knows he doesn't have what it takes. He's known that since early on, replaying Sergeant Donovan's warning in his head over and over once he'd realized he and Sherlock were soulmates. He doesn't, won't, fool himself: if Sherlock ever were the one to have put the body there, then John would be the one corroborating his alibi.

And that was before the triad asserted itself. Stories claim that the bond of a triad is even more powerful than an ordinary bond; remembering the intensity of the forging at the poolside, the sense that only the combined strength of three of them had allowed them to survive it, John doesn't doubt the truth of it. He could no more turn on Jim than he could breathe underwater.

None of which means he has to sit idly by. That's not in him, either.

It just means they're all in for a hell of a fight.

He might have stayed there for hours, thinking and watching them until they awoke, but for the sound of the flat door opening and closing again, and someone in the kitchen not long after that. Whoever it is is moving normally, not trying to hide their presence, but John tenses up anyway. His soulmates are in this flat, sleeping and vulnerable. (Possibly the only state in which either of them is vulnerable, easily remedied by waking them up, but the combination of the bond and John's own instincts overrides that logic.) Quietly, he gets out of bed, pulls on his trousers, and slips out into the hall.

In the kitchen is a man John last saw whilst he was being strapped into a fake bomb. He's at the sink, filling the kettle; the domesticity of the scene is so completely at odds with the previous night that John pauses for a few bewildered seconds, overwhelmed by the sheer cognitive dissonance.

The man looks up at John's approach.

"Morning," he says congenially. "Thought I'd put the kettle on while I wait for Mr Moriarty. Care for a cuppa?"

". . . he's, uh. Still asleep," John offers.

"Good, I'm not going to wake him." He puts the kettle into its base and flicks it on, then holds out a hand to shake. Technically, it's a pointless gesture, since he knows very well John has found his soulmates, but it becomes automatic for most people once they're of finding age. "Sebastian Moran. I think we may have got off on the wrong foot last night."

"Oh. Do you. Really." John ignores the hand. Moran lets it drop without any sign of awkwardness.  
"I can guarantee there won't be a repeat," he says dryly. "Wouldn't do much for my career or my life expectancy."

A detail swims up from the back of John's memory. "You stopped taking aim." It hadn't seemed worth taking notice of at the time, but he remembers now - the red laser dot had vanished shortly after he had grabbed Jim and the world had gone sideways.

"Seemed prudent." Moran turns away to the cupboards, getting out cups and a canister of tea. "Couldn't have got a clear shot anyway. It's a miracle the three of you managed to get out to the car without tripping each other up."

Which is true, and all the more annoying for being so, but before John can do much more than give him a dirty look, Moran gestures with a cup toward the kitchen table and continues'

"I took the liberty of having some of your things brought back from your flat. You'll be in for a bit of a tussle about your wardrobe. You want my advice, you'll give in on the shoes and trousers, then maybe you won't find your jumpers disappearing every time you go to put one on."

". . . seriously?" John says. Moran tugs at the lapel of his suit jacket.

"Do I look like I dress like this on my own? It's all about picking your battles with him. You'll have more leeway than most, but I'd wager you've got bigger things on your mind than the brand of your trousers. Save your energy for those." He turns to pour the water and mutters something that sounds distinctly like,

"And try not to put me out of a bloody job."

*

Being a person's soulmate is no guarantee you're going to _like_ them.

This is far from the first time John has found himself dwelling on this particular fact of life. He is, after all, soulmate to Sherlock Holmes. He'd die for Sherlock, he has killed for Sherlock, and sometimes he'd like nothing better than to chuck Sherlock head-first off the nearest tall building.

But at least he's seen Sherlock's redeeming qualities. That's not something he can say about Jim Moriarty. Prior to the bond, the highlight of their relationship was probably when Jim was ordering that no visible bruises be left during the struggle to get John into the Semtex vest.

"It _was_ fake," Jim says. He seated himself on the kitchen counter maybe thirty seconds ago after dismissing Moran, about ten feet away from where John is sat at the table. He sounds for all the world as if they're mid-conversation instead of just now exchanging their first words of the day. Of course, if Jim really is as much like Sherlock as he claims, there's probably been an entire conversation in those thirty seconds that John wasn't aware of.

(He can feel the bond protesting the fact that they're in the same room but still so far apart, but he firmly ignores it. It's transparently obvious Jim is testing his reaction and he is not going to be the one to give in. He learnt too late with Sherlock that he should have established boundaries immediately; he won't make that mistake with Jim.)

"Oh, well, that's fine then," John says, almost without missing a beat. Sherlock has got him more or less used to this style of conversing. "You're completely forgiven."

"I suppose you want me to change for the better now," Jim remarks. "Start helping old ladies across the street instead of blowing them up."

"It'd be nice," John says stiffly.

Jim looks thoughtful, then shrugs. "I could probably manage that. I don't really blow them up that often, anyway."

John glares at him, refusing to dignify that with a verbal response. Jim responds with a level gaze in which there is no trace of humor to be found.

"You don't understand what it is you're asking," he says. "Not yet. If you did, you'd know why it can't be done." He picks up the cup of tea Moran left for him and takes a sip, not once breaking eye contact.

"Hasn't it occurred to you," he continues, "that by bringing you and Sherlock back here, I told Mycroft Holmes exactly where to find me? I may as well have texted him the address and said 'Come get me.' He's had nearly eleven hours in which to eliminate me and the threat I represent, and yet." He spreads his arms, managing it somehow without spilling his tea. "Here I am."

"You're Sherlock's soulmate," John says automatically. "He wouldn't -" He hesitates there, though. Mycroft is, it's true, the very definition of the protective big brother, but he's also in a position that requires him to understand the importance of the needs of the many in a way most people never have to think about.

Jim cocks his head, watching John, a slow smile curving his mouth. "Wouldn't he?"

He would. John tenses up, caught off guard by the strength of the bond's reaction (of _his_ reaction) to the thought. It doesn't matter if he likes Jim, Jim is _his_ , and John would tear Mycroft's throat out with his fucking teeth to stop him if he had to.

Scientific theory about the soulmate principle holds that it evolved as a way of reinforcing humanity's protective instinct, of saving the species from itself and ensuring its survival. John had thought he'd come to understand this on a bonedeep level when he'd shot the murderous cabbie to save Sherlock.

He was wrong.

Jim studies him with interest for a long moment. Then he puts down his tea, slides off the counter, and crosses the room to sit in John's lap and drape his arms around John's shoulders. It's embarrassing, how quickly the contact makes him relax; he actually shudders as the tension eases out of him.

"Of course," Jim murmurs, "he'd have to get through you first."

John exhales, shaky, wrapping his arms around Jim's waist. "That cannot be normal," he says.

Jim raises his eyebrows, mouthing, Normal?

"Shut up," John says, "you know what I mean."

"Even taking into consideration the extra intensity of a triad bond, it was still a bit more . . . _violent_ than I'd expected." Jim does not sound unhappy about this.

"Than you'd - you did that on purpose," John realizes.

"Well, yes," Jim says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. John suppresses the urge to shove him to the floor.

"Were you trying to distract me, or was it just for fun?"

"It can't be both?" Jim runs his fingers along John's cheekbone. John slaps his hand away. Rather than look startled or indignant, Jim smirks.

". . . All right," John says tightly, after a few seconds spent forcing his temper back under control. "Tell me, then. What is it you and Mycroft know that I don't?"

"Where do I start -? All right, all right." Jim raises his hands in mock surrender. "The short version, then." He looks expectantly toward the doorway. John is very nearly unsurprised to see that Sherlock is standing there, wrapped in the duvet from Jim's bed. He's used to how quietly Sherlock can approach when he wants to.

"Power vacuum," Sherlock says. His eyes are on Jim. "Your network is extensive, far more so than you like most people to think. There are places in the world where you're the most stable thing going. If you withdrew, they'd collapse. The most positive outcome would still cause more civilian deaths in the next six months than you would otherwise be responsible for in the next five years."

Jim smiles at Sherlock as though he's just paid him the most exquisite compliment. "You have been paying attention. Good," he says, then turns his gaze back to John.

"So you see, darling, the old ladies of the world are safer if I stay exactly where I am."  
Two against one is not fair, John thinks, especially not when it's these two. "We're not done with this yet," he tells Jim.

Jim makes a disinterested sound in the back of his throat, stroking his thumb over the side of John's neck. John rolls his eyes, but tolerates the caress on the grounds that objecting will only encourage Jim further.

"What are you doing up, anyway?" he asks Sherlock. "I thought you'd be asleep for  
hours yet."

"You woke me up."

John blinks. "Sherlock, I couldn't wake you up when you're sleeping like that if I dropped a bomb next to your head."

"No," Jim puts in, "you'd kill him if you did that." John's theory of nonencouragement doesn't seem to be panning out; Jim's fingers are tracing the line of his collarbones now, a touch that's somehow idle and intent all at once. He's not touching John's face at the moment, though, so John decides to ignore his pedantry and take it as a win. His standards for winning are going to hit new lows with Jim around, he can already tell.

"Not you," Sherlock says to John. "The connection. It woke me up." He pronounces the pronoun with resentment. "A sort of primitive call to arms, no doubt as a reaction to your briefly perceiving Mycroft as a threat."

Jim looks up, his hand going still. "It did travel through the bond. I thought it hadn't. Why didn't you come sooner?"

Sherlock cocks his head. "That was an experiment? Of course it was. And I've skewed your results."

"Thoughtless of you." There's an offended pout in Jim's voice that isn't reflected on his face.

"You'll find," Sherlock says, "that when a vestigial remnant of evolution past tells me to jump, I do not ask how high."

"No," John says, "he stands there and complains about it first so everyone knows how above it all he is."

"Didn't hear you complaining last night," Jim says.

"Last night was an aberration," Sherlock says stiffly. "There are unlikely to be many repetitions. John and I have an arrangement -"

"Because of your vanishingly low libido, yes, yes," Jim says. "Do you really think I don't know these things?" Resuming his slow caress of John's neck, he glances back at John and adds, "You won't be needing to go to Dr Sawyer for that anymore."

John looks at him evenly. "That will be my decision to make, I think," he says, and savors the way Jim's eyes narrow slightly in surprise.

"Not as boring as you thought he was, is he?" John doesn't have to look to see Sherlock's smirk.

"No," Jim murmurs. He tilts his head - a slow, almost reptilian gesture - studying John. "Good."

"Good," John says, refusing to give in to the unnerving sense that he's just passed some kind of test. "Great. Speaking of Sarah, I ought to give her a ring." It's past time to do so, in fact. She is aware that Sherlock's cases can escalate so abruptly there isn't time to properly cancel any plans, but normally he'd have texted her to reassure her he wasn't dead as soon as he had a moment to spare. She'll be well on her way to worried by now; give her much longer and she'll phone Lestrade to find out what's going on.

He wonders briefly if getting Jim to move so he can get to a phone is going to turn into some kind of strained physical comedy, but Jim takes the cue and slides off his lap without complaint, returning to the counter for his tea.

A brief search for his mobile finds it in amongst the things Moran had left on the kitchen table, which is something of a pleasant surprise, as he distinctly remembers it having been taken away from him last night. Considering the thorough way Jim approaches his games, John would have thought he'd simply have the thing destroyed.

He squeezes past Sherlock, who is still in the doorway, and takes himself and his mobile to another room for at least the illusion of privacy.

When Sarah answers, she doesn't bother with a greeting. "Have you any idea what time is it, young man?" she demands, irritation and relief audible beneath the forced playfulness. "This had better be a good one."

As John opens his mouth to answer, he realizes he has no idea what the hell he is going to say.  
"John?" Sarah asks, dropping the playfulness, after he's let himself sit in stymied silence for a second too long. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," he says quickly, "yes, fine, everything's . . ." He trails off, then resumes. "There's a lot I can't tell you, not till I've straightened it out with some people." It will be virtually impossible, in the long run, to hide the triad from the people closest to them, but they're going to have to decide together how much to tell to whom about how they met Jim. About who Jim is. "I just thought that after having to wait till nearly noon, you deserved a proper phonecall instead of just a text."

Sarah laughs, the relief in her voice much stronger. "Well, you thought right. I suppose I'll let it go this once. Though you realize now I'm dying to know everything."

"That was a bit of a tease, wasn't it?" he says. "Sorry. But, um. You know how Sherlock and I have always thought we were a muted connection?"

"Yes?" she says, cautiously.

"Well." He clears his throat. "As it turns out, there is such a thing as a triad after all." He lets her take a moment to absorb that before continuing, "And. That's why I was too busy to text."

"You have a third," she says blankly.

(In it he hears _and it's not me_ , but maybe that's just him, realizing right now that a  
triad with Sherlock and Sarah could have been the best thing that could ever happen to him. Sarah is a good friend. Sarah takes Sherlock in stride. Sarah isn't a fucking _international criminal_. Why not her? It could have been as close to perfect as anything ever gets.)

"We have a third," he confirms. "Just like in the bloody fairy tales."

"Oh my god," she says, then, a bit too bright, "Congratulations! Of course," then, "It is congratulations, isn't it? You don't sound very happy."

"It's, uh. It's still early," he says. "We're still sort of - working everything out."

"Of course," she says again. She sounds surer about that. Everyone knows how the early days of a new bond go. New soulmates still need time to get to know each other, to decide what their bond is going to be. In that respect, a triad shouldn't be any different.

"But once it's eased up a bit," he says, "I'd like to see you again. To, uh, make up for  
last night."

"I'd like that too," she says. "We'll - you'll have a better idea of what's going on by then? And we'll talk."

"Yeah." He sighs. "I know this wasn't what you signed up for."

"Oh, you're not getting rid of me that easy," she tells him. "Whatever we decide, you're stuck with me as a friend, I'm afraid."

"Damn," he says, smiling. "No way out?"

"No way out," she confirms.

*

Sarah is a bit surprised when John phones to tell her he'll be coming in on Thursday. It leaves time for his new triad - a _triad_ , she still hasn't quite got her head around it - to have settled, but only just.

"So soon?" she asks.

"He's like Sherlock," John says, "but evil."

Sarah laughs. John does too, but there's a strained note to it that speaks eloquently of what it's like to deal with double the Sherlock for an extended period of time. Soulmate bonds make it easier to handle conflict, or the exhaustion of a demanding personality, but they don't make those things disappear. You can get just as sick of your soulmate as you can of anyone else.

"You poor thing," she says. "Are you sure you'll be able to concentrate?"

"Yeah," he says. "Honeymoon period's over. It's just an everyday bond now." He pauses. "As much as it can be."

"Yeah, that," Sarah says. "Would you be up to having lunch together tomorrow or - ?" Or does he still need time to hammer out the details before they talk?

"Make it dinner?" he says. "At yours? I'd like a bit of privacy. You know how the gossip is, last thing I need is the entire building knowing I've got a triad."

"Of course."

Sarah picks up a nice bottle of wine on the way home and suggests ordering takeaway from John's favorite restaurant.

"It _is_ something to celebrate, isn't it?" she asks reasonably in response to John's I-know-what-you're-doing look.

It was a rhetorical question, but after a long moment, John answers anyway.

"I don't know."

Sarah frowns and cracks open the wine.

They eat out in the living room, takeaway cartons scattered across the table. John’s focus is on the food for the first twenty minutes or so; it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see that it’s been a long time since his vending machine lunch, so Sarah keeps quiet until he slows down with a satisfied sigh.

“God, that’s better,” he says.

“Don’t they feed you?" she asks dryly. He snorts.

"You have _met_ Sherlock, right?" He's handing her the segue, so she takes it.

"You said your - third was like him?" she asks.

John laughs a little, hollow. "He's what would have happened if Sherlock were the psychopath some people think he is."

Sarah looks at him, not knowing what to say to that. He turns himself on the sofa to face her, returning her gaze seriously.

"Like I said before," he says, "there are things I can't tell you. But - you should have a full explanation. I just, I need you to promise me you'll keep this to yourself. He's not one of the good guys, but he's mine and Sherlock's and we need him."

Sarah frowns slightly, caught somewhere between indignation over the idea that she's the type of person who would turn on a friend's soulmate and worry over the fact that John feels the need to ask her at all. What kind of person has he and Sherlock found themselves stuck to?

"I promise," she says. "I wouldn't do that to you." There's no point in expressing her concern. It's not as though John's just fallen in with a bad crowd or got into an unhealthy relationship. A soulmate is a soulmate. There's no walking away from that.

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry." A brief pause, then, "You know that Chinese smuggling ring?"

Sarah blinks at the abrupt change of subject. The smuggling ring is not something she's likely to forget anytime soon. It is, in fact, a fonder memory than she's let on to anyone but John. He's the only one she knows who could understand.

"Jim was their contact in the UK," he tells her. Her eyebrows go up sharply.

"Oh," she says. " _That_ kind of not-good guy."

"Yeah."

She contemplates this for a few seconds, then says,

"Congratulations."

He blinks, then laughs.

"Christ," he says, "I don't even know what to do." Then he shakes his head, pushing that question aside for now. "So, yeah. That's our third."

Sarah draws her finger around the rim of her wineglass. "Better your soulmate than your enemy, I suppose," she says. It's a thought she's had about Sherlock once or twice, too.

"Yeah, I dunno about that yet," he says. "The first time we met, he'd had me kidnapped and strapped into a semtex vest."

"Oh my god."

"It turned out to be fake, but that was for Sherlock's benefit, not mine. The whole thing was about Sherlock. He's thrilled about the triad."

She pauses for a second, wondering if the "he" in question is Jim or Sherlock.

"And he's not thrilled about you," John adds. "I don't think it's any of his fucking business and I've told him so, and it hasn't come up since, but . . ." He shrugs helplessly. "I think he's fucked up enough not to care about what hurting my friends might do to me."

Sarah stares. Soulmates _care_ about that sort of thing. Protecting your soulmate from harm as best you can is the entire point, biologically speaking. For John to be genuinely concerned that his might be willing to actively cause him pain - it twists her insides into a knot. Sarah herself is a reluctant holdout, one of those who would rather wait for their soulmate than risk committing to someone else only to have that more fragile bond shattered. It's why her friends-with-benefits arrangement with John is so ideal. He's too in love with Sherlock to ever want more from her, which means less pain all around if she should meet her soulmate while they're involved. - and it makes the situation John is describing that much more horrifying to consider.

"Oh my god," she says again.

John, misinterpreting her reaction, is quick to offer reassurance. "Sherlock doesn't think you're in any danger, or I wouldn't be here. Jim is, well, he's _capable_ of being practical, he knows I'd never forgive him. I just want you to know what you're getting into if you decide to stay. In any capacity."

Sarah doesn't hesitate. "I already told you you're stuck with me," she says. "If I were afraid of a little danger I'd've pushed you away after that acrobat show." If anything, it's the opposite. She pulled him a little closer. Who doesn't want some extra excitement, from time to time? "And you can't let him chase your friends away."

"I'm not," he says. "But I haven't been sleeping with any of my other friends, either. Look, why don't we - at least put that bit on hold, for a little while? Until I've got a better read on him?"

Sarah makes a face, but says, "Yeah, all right." It's the smart thing to do, she knows, and it's clearly what's best for John's peace of mind right now.

Sure enough, John relaxes, reaching for his wineglass. "You're taking this well," he observes.

"I'm saving the minor meltdown for later," she corrects, smiling. "There's a difference." Before he can respond to that, she continues, "And honestly, I'm still kind of stuck on the fact that triads actually exist."

"God, I know," John says. "That was a hell of a shock. Like finding myself in the middle of some fantasy film. Cheap, tidy clean-up in the last five minutes of the plot."

"Oh, I always liked those when I was a kid," Sarah says. "Everyone wins. Two people on the planet just for you."

"Lucky me," John says wryly. She nudges his ankle gently with her foot.

"It's not all bad, is it?"

His expression softens a little. "No. Not all bad."

Sarah stifles a jealous sigh with another sip of wine. She got over being romantic about finding her soulmate years ago, but it still stabs at her sometimes. That look on John's face right now - that's what part of her has wanted all her life. It's what everyone wants. The satisfaction of a soulmate bond, that warm little world she's locked out of. And John's got it twice over.

But there. She's being selfish. She's happy for him. She really is. A psychotic criminal soulmate is still a soulmate. Whatever Jim's failings, he's still filling in whatever gaps John and Sherlock couldn't manage on their own. That's why the universe chose him for them. And John deserves to have that.

"You'll find yours, you know," John says. Sarah blushes as she realizes how transparently her thoughts must have been written across her face.

"You don't know that," she says.

"Sure I do," he answers easily. "Molly Hooper's just found hers. She was on bond leave when we went in last week. And then Sherlock and I found Jim, just a few days later. I've decided it's your turn next."

Sarah laughs. "Oh, have you?"

"Absolutely." He grins affectionately at her. "Whoever it is is going to be lucky as hell."

"Well, obviously," she says, and John laughs.

God, it would be nice if he were right.

*

On Friday, Jim decides - as he knows very well he's meant to, but he doesn't mind - that he's not waiting for an invitation any longer. He turns up at the Diogenes Club at noon and, as he'd expected, is ushered into a side room where Mycroft Holmes is seated. Is, to the discerning eye, _waiting_. There's a folder on the table, placed with neat precision to his right.

Jim drops into the chair across from him, comfortably heedless of his suit. "You wanted to see me?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Did I?"

"Mycroft," Jim says, mildly reproving.

An attendant appears, depositing a glass of Jim's preferred brandy on the table before vanishing again. Jim spares the glass an amused glance.

"I'm not one of your civilians, Mycroft, your parlour tricks aren't going to impress me." He picks the glass up but doesn't sip, opting instead to roll it between his palms.

"I'm merely playing the adequate host to my brother's new soulmate," Mycroft demurs.

Jim slouches back in his chair, giving Mycroft a bored look. "And we both know that between your people and mine, he and John Watson are the safest men in London." And Jim won't hurt them himself. He's wanted Sherlock, in whatever capacity he could get him, for a long time; now he has him, and John is proving himself to be anything but the boring compromise Jim has to make to keep what he wants. They're interesting and they're _his_ and yes, sometimes Jim does like to break his toys, but these ones he wants whole. "You didn't ask me here so I could state the obvious, so let's move on to the matter at hand, shall we?"

Mycroft doesn't insult either of them by attempting to argue again that he had nothing to do with Jim's presence. Instead, he says,

"I assume Doctor Watson has received a crash course in the delicacy of politics."

"He didn't care for it much." Jim puts the drink back down on the table, unsipped and slightly warmer from his hands. "I can't say I'm looking forward to the many repetitions it will take for it all to sink in." If it ever does. John's stubbornness and sense of morality may well outlast Jim's patience on the matter. Jim _is_ rather looking forward to seeing what will happen when it all comes to a head.

"Perhaps," Mycroft says, "we can come to some kind of arrangement that would allow you to avoid all that."

"Subtle," Jim murmurs. Mycroft ignores him, sliding the folder across the table to rest next to the brandy glass.

"You may find this to be of some interest."

"Oooh," Jim says, his tone entirely unimpressed, as he opens the folder.

It contains nothing he hadn't expected. In fact, it's quite similar to what Jim laid out for himself some time ago for when he inevitably gets bored with his web and wants something new. He doesn't care what happens to his empire after he walks away from it, but he's egotistical enough to want to see his creation in the hands of someone who'll know what to do with it. The proposal in the folder outlines a detailed plan for the safest ways in which Jim could transfer his power, bit by bit over the next five years, to trusted employees whilst leaving his empire intact. And, _entirely_ coincidentally, ripe for Mycroft to then begin the process of adding its most vital components to his own little empire.

There's no one else more suited to the task, and they both know it. They both also know why Mycroft is making this proposal so openly now when it would have been a dangerous insult a week ago.

( _You're Sherlock Holmes's soulmate now. You'll never be bored again._ )

"Ridiculous," he says, tossing the folder back onto the table. "I can do it in three."

*

Jim doesn't exactly work traditional hours. There have been things to catch up on after his new-bond holiday, but nothing time-consuming. (Tedious, but not time-consuming.) Once it's been taken care of, he goes back to the flat in which he spent three days with his soulmates and changes his clothes, dressing down from business McQueen to Westwood casual. He has half a dozen of his favorite t-shirt in each of his flats; the "I am not a terrorist" slogan strikes him as especially funny today.

He keeps the same shoes, inappropriate to the more casual ensemble as they are. Then he goes to Baker Street.

He knows John is at work, and he has no interest in being delayed by Mrs Hudson, so he lets himself into the building and goes up to the flat. The door is ajar. He smiles.

Sherlock is on the sofa, reading a book. Or frowning down into a book, at any rate. He glances up as Jim closes the door behind him. Jim watches Sherlock look him over, scoffing at the shirt and glaring at the shoes in such quick flashes that most people wouldn't even see it. He doesn't smile as Sherlock visibly struggles between his instinctive curiosity and his deeply-engrained contrary streak: should he ask the question Jim so obviously wants him to ask?

Then there's satisfaction as he decides he doesn't need to.

"John will be pleased," he says, and Jim loves him, or would if he were capable of such a thing, and he isn't but maybe he does anyway.

(Mycroft's unspoken words: _You're Sherlock Holmes's soulmate now. You'll never be bored again._ All Jim has ever wanted is not to be bored.)

"It's not for him." Jim crosses to the sofa and sits, tucking his foot up so that his knee rests on Sherlock's thigh. The bond, denied contact with either of his soulmates for so long after those first three days, reacts instantly. The sensation is like nothing so much as a full-body sigh of relief, layered over the distinctive low hum of contentment that only soulmates can know.

Sherlock tenses just slightly, glancing at the point of contact before fixing his gaze back on his book. "It doesn't have to be."

Jim withdraws, leaving enough space between them to avoid accidental contact. "We're having dinner with a friend tonight," he says. Sherlock's response is prompt.

"You have a friend?"

Jim doesn't bother with pretending to take offense. Sherlock knows all too well how unlikely it is that people like them should find real friends.

"You'll like her. She's like us." He leans his head back against the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. "We were schoolmates in Brighton." His voice slows into an affectionate drawling singsong. "She was the only one who had any idea that Carl's death wasn't a tragic accident."

Sherlock makes a disgruntled sound. Jim smiles, rolling his head on the sofa to look at his soulmate. "She was closer to it all than you were, my dear. She saw what Carl liked to do, and who he liked to do it to."

"So she worked out you were a murderer and then you became fast friends?"

"She liked my style." Jim sits up and leans closer, still not quite touching Sherlock, and whispers into his ear. "Just like you do."

Sherlock turns, finally, to look at him, not moving away. Jim can see exactly what he wants to say. He waits.

"I don't have sex," Sherlock says eventually.

"I know," Jim answers.

"Sometimes. But not often."

"I never wanted you for your body."

"John is worried for Sarah's safety."

"Irene will talk him down."

"I don't like being touched."

"You don't like the _bond_."

Sherlock falters at that. Only a little, but enough for Jim to see. He gives Sherlock a fond look.

"Darling, I left secondary school to go out and establish a massive international crime syndicate. Did you think I didn't know a thing or two about control issues?"

Sherlock turns away from him. "It's a ridiculous and arbitrary biological urge. I don't have to let it dictate my choices."

"No wonder John lets me into his space so easily," Jim murmurs, settling back against the sofa again. Sherlock gives him a narrow sideways look.

They sit in silence after that. Jim holds himself still, moving only to breathe, feeling the way the bond tugs him toward Sherlock without giving in to it. It isn't as hard as Sherlock wants it to be. Sherlock is tense next to him, but as time passes and Jim fails to pounce, he begins, slowly, to relax and focus again on his book.

The flat gradually darkens; Sherlock blinks slightly more often, then starts to squint at the text, but doesn't move to turn on a light. Jim doesn't move, either, content to sit in the growing dark and let Sherlock acclimate to his presence.

By the time Jim hears John's footsteps on the stairs, Sherlock has become fully absorbed in his book. The door opens, letting in a sliver of light from the hall, shortly after by John turning the light on inside. Jim's eyes protest, but he doesn't squint. Next to him, Sherlock stirs in complaint at the change.

John starts in surprise when he sees that the sofa has two occupants instead of just the one he was expecting.

"Evening, honey," Jim says. John looks at him, but says,

"Still trying to read in the dark, Sherlock?"

"There's plenty of illumination from the streetlights," Sherlock says. John snorts.

"I don't suppose either of you thought about dinner."

Jim stretches, ridding his muscles of the stiffness from sitting still for so long, then stands. (Sherlock watches, silent.) He approaches John, who has turned his back to them to hang up his jacket, and reaches out to run his fingers along the sleeve of John's shirt, then caress the back of his hand. If the bond were a living thing, it would be purring, pleased to at last be indulged. He feels the muscles of John's hand flex with ambivalence, responding both to the bond and John's unease about Jim.

"We're going out tonight," Jim says. As he speaks, the bond wins that little battle and John's hand turns to wrap around his. "I have a dear friend who's dying to meet you both."

(On the sofa, Sherlock offers no reaction, which is telling enough all on its own.)

"The woman with the ringtone," John remembers. Jim smiles, rewarding his recall with a squeeze of the hand.

"Yes." He leans forward, resting his chin on John's shoulder. This time, there is no ambivalence; John leans back against him immediately. "Maybe you'll let her convince you your doctor friend is in no danger."

John turns to look at him, frowning. "You haven't even tried to conv -"

"Would you listen if I did?" Jim asks.

John's frown deepens as he silently concedes the point.

"Exactly." Jim presses a kiss to the corner of John's mouth, then steps back. "Now go change into something less -" He plucks at John's shirt, grimacing at the texture of the fabric. "It's so cheap, how can you stand it against your skin all day?"

John's expression turns sarcastic. "This from the guy in the smartarse t-shirt."

" _Westwood_ ," Jim says, running his hands down over the shirt in question. The name clearly means nothing to John; Jim looks pained, then lets it go. "I had new things sent over for you. They'll fit you. You'll like them. You'll certainly look better in them."

"Not Westwood," Sherlock says. Jim snorts in disdain.

"Of course not Westwood, do you think I'm blind?" John's is a body built for more traditional, conservative designers. Not everyone can pull off what Vivienne dreams up.

"I am keeping my jumpers," John says firmly.

"Sebastian got to you, did he?" Jim says. "Fine. But I'm not touching you while you're wearing them." He shudders. Cheap yarn should be _banned_.

"Then I win either way," John says, which doesn't _technically_ make sense, but Jim refrains from pointing this out. It's important to let John have his little victories. He just gives John a look of aggrieved tolerance and doesn't say anything.

"Right," John says after a moment. "If we're going out, I'm having a shower first."

"Need help scrubbing your back?" Jim doesn't bother to make it sound like anything other than the cheap line that it is. John rolls his eyes, but allows himself to brush against Jim as he passes him on the way upstairs.

"That," Sherlock says once John is out of earshot, "was an unnecessary display."

"Was it?" Jim turns to face him, sliding his hands into his pockets. Sherlock's book lies flat on his lap now, ignored.

"You're used to being able to manipulate people," he says. "Make them dance. You can't manipulate me."

Jim feels another wave of what is probably affection. "Sherlock, I can make you do whatever I want you to do."

"Not this." Sherlock's voice is low and hard.

"No," Jim agrees. "Not this. I'll let you muddle through on your own. Just don't be too long about it."

Jim can have endless patience, but he hates being made to wait.

*

Even if John hadn't known Irene Adler was the woman from the phone call, he could have identified her before she even spoke. She looks exactly like she'd sounded - elegant and confident and a little above-it-all, someone who would phone a friend who's in the middle of committing a crime just to gossip. And he can see in her face the same bright intelligence and interest that animate Sherlock and Jim.

She looks, in short, like the kind of person Jim Moriarty would deign to be friends with.

She greets them warmly as they're led into the sitting room. She and Jim exchange a hug, which surprises John a little; for all that Jim likes to invade his personal space at every possible opportunity, he doesn't strike John as being the huggy type. Also odd is the way Jim checks his pockets immediately after, then gives Irene a put-upon look.

"I'm sorry," she says, "did you want to keep the Bee Gees?"

"No," he says with a shudder. Something soft flickers briefly in her eyes before she turns to Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes," she says. "I've heard your name so many times over the years that meeting you almost seems like an afterthought."

Sherlock doesn't answer. John looks over to see him studying Irene, his eyes narrowed and mouth set in a faint, puzzled frown. He glances at John, giving him one of those quick once-overs of his, then turns back to Irene. She meets his gaze, calm and just a little bit smug.

"She's good, isn't she?" Jim sounds so proud that you might think he was the one who'd stymied Sherlock.

" _Tabula rasa_ ," she says. "No need to give away anything I don't have to."

"Just wondering," John says, "do any of you actually _need_ to say words to have a conversation or is that just for my benefit?"

Irene turns to him with a smile. "Doctor Watson," she says. "You must have your hands full with these two."

"You have no idea," he says.

"You won't be alone long," she assures him. "My soulmate is running a bit behind, but she'll be here soon. The two of you can commiserate about your respective handfuls."

John has to admit, that does sound nice. He gets all the time he needs with normal people while he's at work, and when he spends time with friends, but nobody else he knows has a frame of reference for what it's like to have a genius for a soulmate.

That, and it's a relief to know he won't be spending the evening trying to handle these three all by himself.

*

Irene has what John assumes is very expensive champagne brought in.

"To celebrate," she says, raising her glass. "To finding what we need."

"To finding what we need," John echoes automatically, thinking of Sarah's modest bottle of wine, then realizes he was the only one who answered. Jim apparently couldn't be bothered, and Sherlock - well, Sherlock is Sherlock, wearing that look of faint distaste he always has at the notion of treating the soulmate principle as anything other than an irritating quirk of biology. He's deliberately sat himself slightly apart from John and Jim on the sofa. Not far enough to invite comment in normal society, but in this company, he may as well have seated himself across the room.

Jim is crosslegged on the floor with his back against the sofa. He's leant up against John's leg, which adds a couple of inches to the space Sherlock seems to want so badly. John isn't sure whether he should wonder why Jim is on the floor or just be glad he's not in John's lap instead. The whole set-up is provoking an odd sensation from the bond, simultaneous satisfaction and longing as it wraps itself around John and Jim and tugs unsuccessfully at Sherlock to join them.

Irene smiles at John as he takes an awkward sip of champagne. "I recently found my soulmate myself," she tells him. "Jim introduced us."

"You mean you stole my date," Jim puts in, his voice suddenly so different - lighter and _English_ \- that John stares.

"Yes," Irene says, "and Molly's only speaking to you now for my sake."

"Molly?" Sherlock asks sharply. He looks from Irene to Jim, who blinks innocently up at him.

"We met on her blog," Jim says, still English, just before the door opens and Molly Hooper rushes into the room.

"Sorry I'm late!" she says. "Sorry. It was so busy and the paperwork was -" She shakes her head. "Sorry."

Whenever John has seen her come into a room with Sherlock in it before, she's always looked at Sherlock first and flushed and stumbled through a greeting. The flushing and stumbling are still there, but her eyes are on Irene.

Irene has set her champagne aside, and was on her feet before Molly could get her second apology out. She holds out her hands and Molly crosses the room to her, smiling in an open and unself-conscious way John would never have thought her capable of. Irene's smile is more restrained, but just as real, as she leans down to touch her forehead to Molly's; John gets the distinct impression that her greeting would be much more intimate if there weren't company present. There's nothing that differentiates them from the image of soulmates coming together that everyone has seen a hundred times, but John is aware of the bond and its workings in a way he's never been before. He feels Jim pressed against him and Sherlock pulled away, and he has to put his free hand on Jim's shoulder to keep himself from reaching for their third in a way he knows Sherlock doesn't want. It's far from the first time he's seen soulmates together since finding Sherlock, but the incomplete connection they had before didn't pull the way the triad does. He didn't mind Sherlock's standoffishness then and the bond didn't complain.

Now, watching Molly and Irene, he can't help but feel pushed away.

Jim leans his cheek against John's hand. John thinks at first that he feels it too, then remembers who he's dealing with and wonders how much of the gesture is real. It's soothing, doubly so in the face of Sherlock's implicit rejection, but then Jim must know that. Just because they're soulmates doesn't mean John can trust him.

He leaves his hand in place anyway.

Molly receives her own champagne and sits on the arm of Irene's chair, where Irene can lean comfortably against her in much the same way Jim is leaning against John.

"Hi, Sherlock," Molly says. "John." Her expression turns decidedly cooler. "Jim."

John can't see Jim's face, but he can feel Jim's cheek shift against his hand as he smiles at Molly. Molly doesn't look appeased.

"You were using her to get to me," Sherlock says.

"Not everything is about you," Jim says, using his own voice again. Irene makes a soft sound of amusement into her champagne glass. Jim continues, unabashed, "I was using her to keep you from noticing me."

"I notice everything."

Jim looks up at him. "You wouldn't have noticed me."

After a few long seconds, John shifts a little to jostle him and clears hs throat pointedly. Jim doesn't move.

"I'm not going to apologize to her," he says. "I'm not sorry." He looks at Molly. "Irene wouldn't like it if I lied to you."

"No, she wouldn't," Irene murmurs, then, "Personally, I'm pleased with how it all worked out."

Molly sighs, but there's a slight smile at the corner of her mouth.

*

Shortly before dinner, John excuses himself to use the toilet. When he comes back, Irene is standing outside the closed sitting room door, typing on a mobile phone. She looks up as he approaches. Right, he remembers, Jim had said she'd be wanting to have a chat with him.

"He wanted to kill you, you know," she says. "Once he realized you'd become a permanent fixture in Sherlock's life. You were in his way. Killing you would have been both expedient and satisfying. But he didn't. He had plans, and they wouldn't have worked if he'd made Sherlock unwilling to engage."

Jim's words from the pool echo in his mind: _"I was hardly going to risk killing Sherlock's soulmate this early in the game."_ Still, he says dryly,

"And that's meant to be reassuring how, exactly?"

To his surprise, she doesn't roll her eyes at him the way Jim or Sherlock would have done. She just raises an eyebrow and waits.

"Look, I know," he says. "Long-term versus short-term benefits. Sherlock said the same thing. I just don't see how it applies to me. Jim's interested in me for now, fine. What happens when I get boring?" If she tries to tell him that the soulmate bond is going to make a difference to that with someone like Jim Moriarty, he might just laugh in her face.

"What makes you think you will?" she asks.

He finds that he doesn't have an answer to that.

Irene gives him a smile, then turns and opens the sitting room door.


	2. Side Story:  Sally and Philip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John aren't the only ones to struggle with the soulmate principle. Here is the first of what was intended to be a series of stories about other people dealing with it, too.

"Phil?"

Sally Donovan squints at the clock by her bed. Three in the morning. Why is Philip calling her at three in the morning? "Is everything all right?"

"Did I wake you?"

That's a question she'd usually take the piss out of without a second's hesitation, but then he'd usually have the sense not to ask it in the first place - he knows her too well - so she just says,

"No, it's fine. What's going on?"

"Beth's found her soulmate."

Sally blinks up at the ceiling for a few seconds. "Jesus, Phil, I'm sorry."

(Is she? Yes, of course she is. For his sake. But she also knows she's not the only person he could have called, with this news, at this hour.)

"At her sister's party," he says. "The one she went out of town for."

Sally's seen this happen twice before, once to her cousin and once to another friend. It's a chance you take when you marry without having found your soulmate. There's no guarantee you'll ever find them, but if you take that gamble and it doesn't pay off, that's a hard thing for a marriage to survive even if the bond doesn't turn romantic.

"Do you want me to come over?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, relief clear in his voice, because (she smiles to herself) of course he wasn't going to impose by _asking_. "Please."

Sally pushes back her duvet, sitting up. "'Course," she says. "You don't sound half as drunk as you should be. I've got a bottle of wine needs drinking, should I bring it?"

"I knew there was a reason I called you," he says. "Thanks, Sally."

"Be there in twenty," she answers, and hangs up.

*

An hour later, she and Philip are sitting close together on his couch, each on their second glass of wine. It's not enough for either of them to be more than a bit tipsy, but Philip doesn't need the excuse to talk. Not to her.

"We were going to be so practical if it ever happened," he's saying. "Not let it uproot everything, not yank the rug out from under the kids, not become a statistic. We were gonna be one of those marriages that makes it."

"You still could be," she says. "It's just happened, it's still fresh. You know Beth's not going to just run out on you and the girls."

But Philip is shaking his head. "'Course she's not. She wouldn't. But it's - the way she sounded on the phone, Sally, I know that voice. It's one of _those_ bonds, and maybe it's selfish of me but I don't want a third person in my marriage." He drains his glass, looking lost. "I thought I'd be able to hack it, but now it's actually happening, I . . . I can't."

Sally doesn't reach over to squeeze his hand, but she wants to. "Don't be hard on yourself," she says instead. "You can't know for sure how you'll react to some things until they happen." She grimaces a little at the generic line - how many times has she said those exact words to a self-flagellating witness to try and calm them down? - but Philip takes it in the spirit in which it's meant.

"I know. But I don't want her to feel bad. It's not her fault. That guy wasn't even going to be there tonight, did I mention? He got off work at the last minute. They might never have even met otherwise."

"Isn't that always the way." Despite all the studies showing that most soulmates meet under perfectly ordinary circumstances, it seems sometimes like the soulmate principle operates primarily through massive coincidence. "Fucking principle." She leans forward to snag the wine bottle and refills Philip's glass.

"Fucking principle," he echoes. He takes a long swallow. "I know everyone says this, but god, I wish we could choose. Why can't we choose?"

Sally tops up her own glass. "If we knew that, we'd know everything." 

Philip exhales, long and slow. "If I could choose," he says, picking his way cautiously through the sentence, "for myself, not the girls, but just for me - well, up until a couple years ago, I'd've said Beth, but now -"

"Phil." Sally has gone still. "Don't say anything you'll be sorry about later." She'll let him take it back, she will, it wouldn't be fair to hold him to anything he says tonight, but there are some things you can't force back into their box once you've let them out. This - them - it's a delicate equilibrium they've managed to preserve through an unspoken agreement to leave it be. If he says this, letting him take it back might not be enough.

"No," he says. "No. I'm saying it now, before I've had any more wine, so I can't try to wriggle out of it tomorrow."

"Maybe I don't want you to say it." It might be the weakest denial she's ever made in her life, but he still heeds it. He pauses, looks at her, brings her into the decision, and so help her, that's exactly why she does want him to say it. She's dated too many arseholes who would have plowed right on ahead without even blinking. 

Carefully, deliberately, she leans forward again and puts the bottle back on the table. Then she sits back, closer now, tilting her face toward his.

"You know I'd pick you too," she says, and kisses him.

It doesn't take long to decide that she never wants to put this back in its box.


	3. Side Story:  Molly and Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's first date in a long time gets suddenly complicated.

Molly Hooper doesn't mind not having found her soulmate, not really. A lot of people think she's the type to be all wound up about it, but she likes her life. She's got a fulfilling job, she's got a few good friends, she's got a cat. A soulmate is an extra. Most people don't ever find theirs, and Molly is okay with being part of that majority. She doesn't need an extra.

That doesn't mean she never wonders, or that there isn't a part of her that hopes when she shakes a new acquaintance's hand. She is only human, after all. When she and Jim meet face-to-face for the first time after flirting over her blog and nothing happens when they touch, she can't help but be disappointed.

It must show on her face, because he says,

"Oh. Well, I'm not really looking for - but if you are - I mean, it can be just coffee, it doesn't have to be any more than -"

"No, no," she says hastily, "that's fine. It's fine! I'm not looking either."

He smiles, relieved. "Good," he says. "Because I was really looking forward to . . . coffee. With you."

She's blushing hopelessly by now, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he's gone a bit pink himself.

"Me too," she says. "With you."

*

They have their first proper date that weekend, at a club Jim likes. Molly hasn't gone out dancing since uni, mainly because she can't dance, but Jim drags her out onto the floor, shouting cheerfully over the music,

"You can't be worse than I am!"

Within minutes, Molly is doubled over giggling, because it's true: Jim is the worst dancer she has ever seen. He's obviously playing it up for her benefit, but she doesn't mind. It feels good to be spending time with someone who cares enough to want to make her laugh like this. It's been so long, she'd forgotten what it was like. So when the ridiculously sexy brunette slinks over through the crowd and drapes her arm across Jim's shoulder, saying, "Hello, gorgeous," Molly is somewhat less than pleased.

Jim blinks, startled. (And does he look faintly annoyed for an instant, or that is wishful thinking?) Then he laughs ruefully.

"God, sorry, she always does this," he says to Molly, hooking his arm around the woman's waist. "This is my sister, Mandy."

. . . oh.

Well. On the bright side, at least her face is already flushed the heat of the club, so her embarrassed blush doesn't show very much. She hopes neither of them noticed her initial reaction, though going by the appraising look Mandy is giving her, she doesn't think she got quite that lucky.

Mandy starts to hold her hand out to shake, but Jim playfully swats it down.

"Oi," he protests, "you trying to steal my date?"

She laughs and pokes him in the shoulder. "I haven't managed it yet, have I?" He rolls his eyes. "Oh, go on, then."

She smiles and reaches out to Molly. After a glance at Jim, Molly accepts, and everything -

It isn't that the room goes silent so much as she stops registering the sound; it isn't that everything else disappears so much as Mandy becomes the only thing in the room worth looking at. The bond doesn't burst into existence so much as it unfolds, twining up along their wrists and arms until it's wrapped itself completely around them. It burns brightly for a few long seconds before fading into invisible permanence.

When Mandy steps forward and puts her arm around Molly's waist, leaning down to speak softly into her ear, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

"I go by Irene," she says. Molly smiles up at her without a trace of self-consciousness.

"Hello, Irene," she says. "I'm Molly."

Irene smiles. "I know," she says, then, "We've got a bit of an audience, Molly. Shall we leave before everyone starts trying to buy us drinks?"

Molly blinks as their surroundings start to filter into her awareness again. The people around them are applauding. The bright light of a forming bond is, basically, a visual hallucination shared only by the new soulmates, invisible to any witnesses, but when two people freeze and stare at each other mid-introduction - well, everyone knows what that means.

"Oh my god," Molly squeaks, burying her face against Irene's shoulder. Not even the influence of a brand-new bond can dull how much she hates being the center of attention. Irene laughs and gives her a reassuring squeeze.

"Oh my _god_ ," another voice echoes, and then she remembers: She's on a date.  
Guiltily, she looks up.

"You are _actually_ stealing my date," Jim says to Irene, and maybe it's the distortion of the crowd noise, but his voice sounds odd. Different. Even his accent has changed. Irene turns to face him, letting go of Molly's waist but keeping firm hold of her hand.

"Sorry, Jim," she says, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "You can keep the  
next one, I promise."

The look he gives her in answer makes Molly reflexively take a step back, her hand tightening on Irene's. Then he turns and disappears into the crowd. Molly looks up at Irene, unsure of what to say. Irene looks entirely unruffled.

"He's such a child sometimes." She shakes her head, more fondly exasperated than anything else. "Don't worry, he'll be fine. He'll sulk for a day, then turn up at my door like nothing ever happened."

"Okay." In the back of her head Molly still feels guilty, and she knows it'll get worse after the first intense hours of the bond have passed, but for now it's easy to tuck away. Irene knows her own brother better than Molly does, after all.

*

"He's not really my brother," Irene tells her in the car. In Irene's car. In Irene's car with an actual driver. They're curled up together in the backseat, heedless of seatbelts.

"He's not really - ?" Molly frowns slightly. The sheer contentment of indulging the bond's demand for touch blurs her annoyed confusion, but doesn't erase it. "And you're not really called Mandy."

"Jim's not been very truthful with you, I'm afraid," Irene says. "We've been friends for a long time. I'm the only one he's truthful with."

"Can we not talk about him right now?" Molly asks suddenly. "Just - you only get the first night once." She wants to enjoy it, let the bond take over and push away her insecurities so she can learn Irene and let Irene learn her without distractions.

Irene smiles. "I like your priorities," she says. "Tomorrow, then. And until tomorrow" - she leans down to whisper, lips brushing Molly's ear - "I know a few things you might like."


End file.
